Mending the Divide
by Little Blossom
Summary: War tore them apart, but they still find one another again, even though the spaces between them feel impossibly wide. Even though one is listed dead, one is not allowed to exist, one cannot forgive (herself included), and one is hideously confused about life and doesn't know it. Kanda/Allen, Lenalee/Lavi with eventual Allen/Kanda/Lenalee/Lavi (some Tyki/Allen, Allen/Road).
1. Part 1

So this story has been sitting on my computer for years, and as such, does not coincide perfectly with cannon because I wrote it without knowing the things I do now. So yeah.

Pairings include: Allen/Tyki, Allen/Road(one-sided), Allen/Kanda, Lavi/Lenalee, with eventual Allen/Kanda/Lavi/Lenalee because I want them to be a big happy family, okay?

Warnings for: death, violence, language, vague sex, homosexual relationships, polygamous relationships (but not as a kink, but for warm fuzzy feelings), slow updates.

* * *

**Mending the Divide**

He connects the dots with his mind, creating imaginary lines between the stars. Constellations form across the sky, abstract pictures creating arbitrary symbols of hope, guidance and history. It's the seven stars of the bible that stand out in his mind. Seven glittering diamonds, a single shape, with so many names that try to capture and pin down an impossible true meaning: Butcher's Cleaver, Plough, Great Wagon, Steelpannetje, Otava, Sapta Rishi, Hokutoshichisei, Bukduchilseong, Buruj Biduk, Big Dipper.

It guides him to Polaris and takes him to where he needs to go for duty.

"Hey! Carlo! That you over there?"

The footsteps over are quick, awkward, and muffled by the grass.

Carlo turns calmly on his heel, fixes his expression to kind and mature, and becomes the best older and wiser brother-type anyone could ask for.

"Ermanno? What are you doing out here? Aren't you leaving early tomorrow morn for the army?"

Ermanno grins; his teeth a jumbled mess that piles all over one another. He scratches at his mop of mud brown hair goofily. "Too excited to sleep. Besides, I was sent to find you." He casts Carlo a sly look. "Viviana wants to _talk_ to you."

Carlo rolls his eyes. "Viviana always wants to talk to me."

"Oh Carlo, you wound me! Viviana is the prettiest thing for miles, and to you? It means nothing. I wish she'd look my way. I'd give my left arm for just a taste."

Carlo gives him a friendly pat on the shoulder, just one, and careful not to let his hand linger. He gives an amused smile, ignoring the memory of a left arm that condemned its owner to walk a path lined with sorrow. "There are more important things in the world than pretty girls you know."

A sudden thought seems to hit Ermanno as he straightens his back, puffs his chest out, and gives a crooked grin with crooked teeth. "That's why I'm off. I'll fight for this land of mine. Those Ethiopians should've honoured our treaty. And Russia, _helping _them," he spits black spoon-fed hatred. "I may be a boy now, but soon I'll be man. I'll come home a hero. That's when I'll get myself a beautiful woman and start a family. That's when I'll _be_ someone."

Apathy coats Carlo's insides like an old comfortable sweater; the wool is weaved from the fibres of a freely given up childhood, of parchments piled endlessly high, of scathingly accurate memories, recordings that belong to history and not to him.

Carlo records Ermanno's proud stance, his naïve dreamer grin with teeth so misplaced it consumes his tanned farm-boy face. He records everything, from the apple crisp night that smells of sweet hay to the patterns wind-brushed onto the durum wheat field. He records as a small ignored voice screams from a heart that doesn't exist. _Fool. No glory. You'll break. Death. Too heavy. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. _

Instead he says, "Just keep a cool head out there, Ermanno. When you return and we meet again, I want you as undamaged as possible."

Ermanno's expression turns strange and thoughtful. It's a face that he doesn't usually wear. Carlo tilts his head and analyzes it in the sudden silence.

"Come with me," the farm boy says at last. He says it with such conviction that Carlo almost sees another face, scarred and captivating, from a different time. "It's not too late."

"Eh? I'm not really much of a fighter, to be honest. I'd be useless out there. I'm more of a bystander. An observer, really." He grins sheepishly. "I'm more than a bit pathetic when it comes to action."

Carlo can read Ermanno's suspicious and annoyed face with ridiculous ease. He can see Ermanno's mind working, thinking, _Liar. I'm not stupid. You can fight. I know it._

Only everyone knows it. It's Carlo's worst kept and not meant to be kept secret. Aniela has a generous and forever chattering mouth. She just happens to be the younger sister of Claudio, the brazen dunderhead that trails after Viviana step for step. Sadly, Viviana's fluttering doe-eyes shine for Carlo alone.

It'd been moonless the night that Claudio decided to ambush Carlo. He'd been with Serge, his brother in all but blood, when they decided to flank him near the woods to teach him what was what.

Carlo had grinned then without humour, before moving like the wind, silent, and ending it all before the first battle cry was even uttered.

Rumours and crazily built up stories had spread like wildfire. Carlo had only shrugged at the curious glances. He'd expected it.

He isn't sticking around long enough for it to really matter anyways.

"Do it for Her, Italy. You're too modest. You can fight. Everyone knows it. Come with me. We will set the world right with these hands of ours." Ermanno spreads his hands wide, palms open, in invitation.

Carlo favours him with an apologetic smile. "I'm sorry, but no. I'm but a simple writer. I assure you I am much mightier with ink and paper than I am with a weapon. I will write for Italy," he says with equal conviction, expression spinning sincerity into it. "That is the greatest thing I can do, trust me."

Carlo watches Ermanno's brow loosen as misplaced brotherhood floods into the cracks of his inexperienced heart.

Ermanno smiles and Carlo mimics the gesture, not even bothering to think how easy it is. How easy it always is.

"I will tell Viviana that I could not find you."

"I'd appreciate that," he says means it for once.

"I don't know when we'll meet again …"

"But we will meet."

Ermanno nods. "We will."

Carlo nods back, face carefully warm but expectant. _We will meet again_, it says. Lies, he knows, but that doesn't matter.

They part in amiable silence.

Carlo sighs in half annoyance and half amusement the moment Ermanno is out of earshot.

"And here I thought I could get away without running into anyone."

He checks the position of the stars, determining it to be just past midnight. He heads north, seven stars showing him Polaris. He pictures the elegant font of the old panda in his head, clear as the day he'd read it, telling him of the meeting place at dawn.

Carlo steps farther and farther away from this small village, never bothering to look behind as his recordings are complete. With every step he feels himself shedding skin. Carlo peels away, cracking and fading into the air.

Bookman Junior has no smile as he falls back into the folds of a timeless existence. Time is but a thing to record; it's something he can't be part of.

.

* * *

.

"Thank you so much Dr. Lee, how can I ever repay you? It's your day off, isn't it? I owe you something special." An old hand like leather, wrinkled with time, clasps a smooth and dainty one.

Dr. Lee laughs like summer rain. "You can repay me by getting plenty of rest Mr. Chin, I've heard the rumours. You're not as young as you once were."

His laugh contrasts against hers, sounding as if his throat is lined with gravel. "If I'm alive I might as well live."

Her eyes harden and become steel. "But you're going to be good for me and not do anything strenuous for a month, right?"

The silence that passes feels like a dark and dreaded thing under her doctor gaze of doom.

"Right," he cows.

She brightens immediately. "Excellent! Now you best be on your way before your wife comes looking for you."

"But you're much prettier company."

"Hmm?"

"Like a ray of light to the matrimonially bound man I am."

"I see. Well, I hope for your sake she never hears that. It's been said that her fury is like a storm. A storm where lots of people die."

I don't think she could compete with your fury though, Dr. Lee."

"Hmm, what was that? I don't think I head you properly."

He doesn't miss her chilled tone. "I … um … I said I best get back to my wife."

"Good idea. Now I want to see you in two weeks, alright?"

"Yes Ma'am.

Dr. Lee helps him to the door, mindful of his walking stick. His arthritis is getting worse, and she knows that he sometimes has problems keeping his balance.

With Mr. Chin gone she starts to pack up her tools into a soft leather bag. She mechanically cleans everything up, deft hands moving quickly. It's been a year since she's opened her own clinic, and already she's use to this life style. It's her own little bubble of a world that closes in around her, much like being wrapped in a blanket that's been sunning all day. She'd used money given to her by the Vatican to set up shop; they owed her that much at the very least.

Four years she had trained, immersing herself in medicine, focusing in on it with such single-mindedness that she could see that worry lingering on her brother's face. She had smiled her best for him, but she wouldn't slow down. She'd remembered all the people that she couldn't save in the final battle (looking for a flash of white hair, Where are you? I need you? You promised, you promised me!) and her resolve hardened.

She hears the door opening behind her. "I'm sorry I'm closed today, please—"

"My sweet Lenalee! I've missed you. Tell me you've missed me too!"

She heaves a sigh. "Brother, what are you doing here? I was just on my way home."

"I thought we'd go out for breakfast. There's this new dumpling house. They are trying to revolutionize the way we eat dumplings. Breakfast dumplings, lunch dumplings, dinner dumplings. It's all a little odd, but let's go! Besides, I haven't seen you in two weeks. Why didn't you come home after your mission? I mourned your absence all night."

Lenalee's mouth becomes a hard line. "Brother, is Reever expecting you at work this morning?"

"Oh," he says dismissively before shrugging, "he'll get over it. More importantly, come give me a hug."

Or a kick, that works too.

Komui nurses his swollen cheek, his mood finally subdued. "So your mission went well I hear."

Lenalee takes out a folder from a locked drawer and hands it to him. "Here's my report. It was just a couple of level twos. The amount of Akuma still lingering has faded considerably."

She gives him a wry smile. "You're going to be out of a job soon."

"I do more than just look for stray Akuma," he huffs.

"If you do even that. When's the last time you did anything useful?"

Lenalee straightens as she sees how her brother's demeanour suddenly changes, smooth and gradual, like silk being unravelled. He looks nostalgic, something warm but melancholic moulding his features. "I found her."

She perks up. "Who?"

"The one Kanda's looking for."

Lenalee feels her heart race at the name. Long black hair similar to her own and midnight blue eyes that were never nurtured to properly express warmth. His voice is harsh, quiet yet penetrating. She hears it still ringing in her ears, saying, _Do what you want_.

She wants to ask a million questions about him, but she has no right to ask them. "Have you told him yet?"

"I've contacted headquarters, but he was on a mission at the time. I left them a message and the documents should arrive there shortly." Komui sees his sister fidget with her gaze cast downward.

"He's doing fine," he tells her, putting a hand on her shoulder to bring her close.

"I left him," she says miserably.

"He had a choice, as did you. You left no one. He's not mad at you."

"He'd never leave headquarters, I know that. I left him. He's too stubborn to believe he needs anyone. He's lonely and he's too stupid to realize it." Her voice is deep-rooted with guilt. "I made you come to China with me too."

"No, I decided to come home with you. This is where we were before. The war is over so now we can go back to our daily lives."

"I don't remember life in China. It's all blurry." All she remembers are voices that were once filled with warmth, life, and laughter. They quickly become choked screams, soon replaced with voices telling her how precious she is, her and her innocence that will save them all. _You can never leave, you are chosen by God._

She hugs him close, fingertips pressing into the strong back that would take all her grief if she ever allowed it. She never will. She doesn't want him to shatter for her, all with that loving smile that would deny her nothing.

"We're here to take back what was taken from us." He smiles suddenly, easy. His eyes are bright with mirth. "Now let's go eat! Before Reever checks to see if I'm here."

"Brother!"

"Come, food!"

"I don't want to hear anymore from you! If you say anything that's going to make me angry I'll stop making you coffee. I'll make it for everyone but you. You're the reason I fear for Reever's health every day."

The wail Komui howls after her as she walks out is long and terrible on the ears. She ignores him easily while muttering dark words about older brothers.

And if she happens to miss the sadness that flashes on his face while heading out into the muggy morning air, well, that's fine with him.

.

* * *

.

He leans on the hard knuckles of his hand, mindlessly staring out the window. The sun is at its peak in the sky lording over the green of the landscape. He closes his eyes in boredom at the passing scenery.

The train rumbles over the rails and Kanda meditates. He clears his mind until it flows with the relief of nothing but images of flowers, soft, pale, and over blooming. He forgets about his recently completed mission, a level three that barked with too much laughter while it spun with fire. He'd killed it in one fluid swipe like it was nothing.

He forgets about everything. He rids his mind of the past, never looking to the future. He focuses on the here and now and the tranquility he finds in these moments of silence. Kanda can't imagine any kind of future for himself; always empty of content and cut short. Trying to imagine a future makes his body seize with _something_; a clenched hand brought to a tattooed chest and eyes that refuse to see. His past is a joke, the kind that would humour the sadistic and deranged.

He's been made to be tough and durable, but also disposable. Kanda helped them win their war, and he's surprised that he's still alive.

He still has use though. His arms are still strong and his movements still swift. He can still kill with the best of them, all in the name of some laughable God. Mugen is a comfortable weight at his hip, filling him with purpose and assurance. To Kanda it's the only companion he needs.

People come and go, but his sword remains with him always. Swords don't leave when everything's done and over, detaching from reality. Swords don't get broken over death and run away to the past. Swords don't go off against orders only to die and never be found.

His heart wrenches but he knows it's nothing. He's a warrior, a soldier, and that fact alone means that nothing stirs his heart.

The train reaches its destination mid-afternoon and he heads back to headquarters, travel bag slung over his perfectly straight back.

.

* * *

.

Sunset is fast approaching, and with it so is his pace. He weaves in and out of the bustling crowd, steps light on the chilled and chipped cobblestone. Cold air sweeps through the town, the frosty bite of it sends a slide of ice down his spine.

He licks his chapped lips and hugs closer a brown papered package. The glare of the sun catches his eyes, burning bright and striking the sky crimson.

He quickens still.

Almost running, his strides start to shorten, and he slows to a stop in front of a respectably sized house. The bricks are yellow in nature, but they glow and glitter when the rays strike at them just right, dusting them golden.

His chest aches at the sight. At sunset the fire from the sky sets fire to the house, flickering across the walls in warm, violent hues, reminding him of less pleasant times. Times of loss without finding, of cries and deranged laughter, of broken promises, and of a haunting lullaby that once threatened to conquer his world.

The gate clicks open with the release of a latch, and he plucks a white rose from the garden along the pathway. Weeds run rampant, but still can't overthrow the jewelled greens of the garden, with flowers spilling out of the beds, tall and so alive. These days the garden begins to recoil in the wake of the coming winter, but it fights for life with such mule stubbornness that the neighbours whisper words of witchcraft.

He enters a house that doesn't seem real with its glittering bricks and overly fertile plant life. It appears to be touched with magic, to be touched by God; he laughs and laughs at the thought, bitter and not at all sweet. Of all the things in God's domain, the inhabitants of this household are the last things to be _blessed_ by _His _holy touch.

The stairs are silent with every step, his ears straining to hear any sign of life.

There are sounds, a soft broken chatter coming from the last door of the west wing. Hard solid boots move like a ghost down a wood paneled hallway. The framed golden eyes of the fallen adorn the walls and drink in his every movement like a heady red wine. He raps his knuckles a neat three times on the mahogany door, pausing a breath before turning the ornate brass knob.

The two in the room watch him as he enters with identical pairs of eyes that turn molten in the dying light of the setting sun.

"Hello," he greets, setting down his package on a nearby dresser. He takes off his coat, revealing long and crisp white sleeves, and drapes it on a plush chair.

"Allen!" Road pouts, "I haven't seen you all day. Will you play with me? Tyki is getting so boring in his old age."

Tyki chokes on his cigarette. "Old age? Thirty-three isn't that old Road. Aren't you even older than me anyways?" He sighs, deliberately long and deliberately suffering. He turns to Allen. "So boy, you don't think this old man is getting dull do you?

A wry smile and, "I don't think you could ever be dull Tyki."

Tyki grins lopsidedly, waves a hand dismissively, and heads towards the brown package.

Allen wanders to the window, feeling the draft that Road says doesn't exist and yes her bed is just fine where it is. "You know, I don't think I was ever told your age Road."

"And you never will." She sticks out her tongue, a pale pasty pink. "I don't look my age, do I Allen?"

Allen wishes she didn't look the way she did; tiny and kept propped up with a comical amount of pillows, her skin so pale and faded of life that she blends in with the bleached linens on her bed. Her bones jut out too sharply from her sunken and sallow skin, cutting into Allen with every disjointed movement made.

He swallows past the lump, pasting on one of his warmest smiles, the one reserved only for lies. "You look as ageless as you ever have. Whoever you end up with is going to look like a pedophile." Allen's tone is strung with easy humour. He's careful to ignore the longing in her eyes, distracting himself instead with the white rose that he's been rolling between his fingers. "And before I forget, a flower for you."

Road blinks, then squeals happily as Allen places the rose in her lap. Her voice hitches at the end, and she falls into a vicious coughing fit.

She stares at the blood freckling her hands with grim amusement. Road's eyes shine something sinister, her bloodless mouth curling at the corners as her cheeks dimple in silent, hysterical laughter.

"It's hilarious, isn't it? In the end I'm as weak as they are," she says, face coloured warmly from the still setting sun.

Allen only ever visits her at this time nowadays, when she seems the most alive with false colours painting her healthier with gold and orange and red and pink. During the day light only serves to wash her out and away. Night is the worst; silver moonlight casting deep and dreadful shadows that dig harshly into the gaunt hollows of her face, neck, and body. Road becomes a skeleton dolled up in a frilly nightdress, and Allen who's seen death in all forms can't stand it.

"Road, this isn't weakness." Allen puts a hand on her blanket covered lap.

She snorts, childlike, before her demented grin evaporates and leaves her looking so ageless he has to look away.

"Hmm … you would say that. Wouldn't you, Allen. But you don't know what weakness is." And she plucks off a petal, using it to wipe the blood from her hands in gentle rosy smears. She kisses the scarlet side, soft against her lips, and licks off the blood.

"Winter's coming," she continues after a long silence, opening the window a crack to discard the petal.

Allen watches as the wind carries it out of his sight.

Tyki turns around from the dresser where he has busied himself. The bare skin of his hand clings to a little plastic cup swollen halfway with liquid, appearance like dark purple tar. His hair is tied back loosely at the base of his neck with the curls sticking to his black dress shirt.

Allen watches the sway of Tyki's hair as he approaches Road's bed, gaze drifting to the exposed collarbone that frames the top of his torso so invitingly. Allen imagines tracing it with gentle fingertips, the pads whispering across it and along the hollows. Images of tongue and teeth go along with it, firmer and slick with heat.

Allen shuts as eyes as Tyki hands Road the cup, her nose scrunching up in displeasure. He doesn't imagine farther than that.

Road chokes down her medicine, whining all the way.

"That tastes disgusting."

"That's not the point of it Road," Tyki says.

She huffs in his general direction, but then takes his hand into hers, squeezing it weakly.

"Allen, you should stop bringing me back medicine and bring me back candy instead."

"You know I can't do that."

"Do it sometime in the near future. Please?"

"Oh fine. I'll bring you candy, but you still need to take your medicine."

She looks out the window, Tyki's hand still in hers. "I promise, but only for now. I'll eat only candy in two weeks."

"Why?" he asks, swallowing the pain he feels with the kind upward curve of his lips.

She beckons him closer, taking his hand. She hugs both their hands to her forever flat, undeveloped chest. Her lungs rattle with every breath.

"I'm sorry Allen, but it won't matter when winter comes."

.

* * *

.

"So where are we going now?" Junior asks.

"We're going home," answers Bookman.

Junior's face freezes. There is only one place that Bookman calls home, and it's the one place he's never been. It's where Bookmen are born and fade into that timeless space between existence and death.

He's carefully impartial. "Does this mean that—"

"It means you have one final task. It will be given to you there, you will be sent out alone, and you will return when it is completed."

Junior grins. "You won't be able to tell me what to do anymore after this."

He gets a good wallop to the head as a response.

"Owe, that hurt Panda."

"I'll be able to tell you what to do until the end of time, you brat." Bookman gives his apprentice a hard look. "You'll meet the others there."

"I don't suppose they'll greet me with much love, will they."

"They'll respect your space."

"And send sharp glares at me behind my back."

"Does this bother you?"

"Nope. Not at all."

"Good. Now let's get going."

.

* * *

.

Komui watches as his sister twists a smile on her face, and it isn't pretty. He finds the curve of her lips too sharp at the corners, her lips pressed together tight. Komui notices how her jaw clenches and locks together without the forgiveness he thought the years might nurture.

He can feel the anger rolling off her in waves, fierce tumbles of dark liquid fury. It laps into his hands, fingers twitching in a way they haven't in years.

"He's coming here," she questions what isn't really a question. She hears him correctly and he knows that.

"He is," he confirms anyways.

Her rage grows deeper. "Send me off on a mission. I don't want to be here when he arrives."

"It won't matter."

Her eyes narrow terribly, her voice forced out flatly. "And why not?"

"He's doing a follow-up of the war. You were a key player." That he will search for her until he finds her is left unsaid but understood.

"Fine," she snaps, "he can observe and record his damn history. But you tell him that I don't want to hear or see him anymore then I have to."

She leaves him in the dumpling shop, the click of her heeled boots falling into the distance.

To her, Lavi is as good as dead. Just as she made her choice, he made his. And if he is willing to throw his comrades away to the pages of history, no attachments whatsoever, then she is willing to do the same with him.

.

* * *

.

Kanda steps into headquarters with mud-caked boots, his gait smooth, strong, and solid. Those before him scramble off. His cold rage is legendary among the halls of the order.

Sometimes there are whispers of those that could hold their own against him. The previous chief that uses the right words only when it matters, a female exorcist that everyone admires in one way or another. There are words of a deceased fatherly general that cried as much as he smiled. There'd been a boy with a head of red that knew just how far to push before dodging away from the swipe of a sword, simultaneously terrified and amused. One finder speaks at length about the Destroyer of Time, a fearless boy that faced Kanda's rage at every encounter.

No one is left now. They have relocated, died, or moved on. It suits Kanda just fine. He finds his life less annoying and noisy now.

"K-Kanda."

Kanda turns and finds a small and meek Finder. They look for Akuma instead of innocence these days. Others try to find the traitors that assisted the Earl for personal gain.

"What do you want?"

The man sinks into the collar of his uniform just like a turtle shying into its shell. "Th-the chief. He w-wants t-to see you."

"Che." Kanda nods at the man, a sharp quick tilt that makes the Finder jump.

The Finder runs to the cafeteria happy to be unscathed and alive. The rhythm of his feet sounds a jumbled mess when compared to the even and steady strides leading the opposite way.

.

* * *

.

Allen's lips press against the pulse point of Tyki's neck, not really a kiss but heated breaths firmly caressing skin. His teeth scrape over the racing pulse while a deformed hand slides down Tyki's back leaving dripping red lines.

Allen groans. The sound is low and guttural and takes him back to his days on the street, passing crumbling alleys where common whores served their customers. A finger slides inside him with practiced ease and he forgets to breathe.

When it's over he is sticky with sweat, saliva, and semen. Flush against Tyki and warm, he sighs with a hand curling into the other's thick hair. Allen feels relaxed and ready to fall asleep. Tyki's face is nosed under the line of Allen's jaw.

Dark hands slide down Allen's body to rest on the hip. "You need to talk to her."

Tyki can't see Allen's face, so Allen doesn't bother to hide the pain that takes hold of it, voice concocted to be casual. "I talk to her everyday."

Tyki's sigh feels heavy against Allen's jugular. "Don't play dumb Boy. Neither of us are fools, so don't pretend that we are."

There's a hollow feeling threatening to consume Allen, forming low in his stomach and forcing its way upward until he wants to choke. Dry humour comes out instead, "I'll stop pretending when you stop calling me Boy. I'm not that young anymore."

"You never had the chance to be young. So I don't want to hear any excuses from you." Tyki traces the cross on Allen's hand with calloused fingers. "I'll stop calling you Boy when your gusto returns to you. You were always a little dark, but ridiculously optimistic in a pessimistic way, at the same time. Somehow." He pauses. "Running doesn't become you Walker."

Allen says nothing.

"You know your silence is hurting her."

Allen swallows back the thickness that feels like rancid honey. "I know," he says. "I'll talk to her." He has to.

"You should do it soon. It'll mean more to her if you go see her during the coming full moon. Not at sunset like you usually do. She wants you to see _her _for how she is."

"I know," Allen says again. He pictures death in a nightgown, the harsh streak of crimson dripping from a small mouth that grins in misplaced mirth.

"She loves you."

He leans himself further into Tyki's arms. "I know that, too." Guilt fills him, swollen and painful.

It heat starts up slow and stays that way. Unbearable, but needed.

Allen takes Tyki's cock in his mouth as deep as he can before Tyki take him again as deep as _he_ can.

Allen's cheeks burn where Tyki's tongue licks and scorches a hot trail.

"Salty," Tyki breathes into his ear with a sharp upward thrust of his hips.

Allen gasps, face now moist with spit instead of tears.

.

* * *

.

"Going back to the Order? I never thought I'd see those guys again." Junior stares into the vastness of the desert. The wind is dry against his lips, sand blown into all the various folds of his clothing.

The task is simple and substantially less dangerous than the last time his task involved the Black Order. It's just a simple follow-up. He tries not to think about how closing the book on this one historical event leaves him feeling oddly numb.

Bookman Junior is to go to headquarters and the Asian branch. Bookman is going to go to the other branches with the second in line successor.

It's frighteningly easy how effortlessly he can recall memories from that time period. It's never been hard or tasking to recall his recordings with inhuman accuracy and detail, but it's the fluid, welcoming ease that wraps around them that unsettles him so.

He thinks of headquarters. There's the image of a perpetual scowl on a beautiful but cold face; Kanda Yuu, known as the ice warrior. Junior has always thought otherwise. Kanda feels just like the rest of them, he just doesn't know what to do with his emotions. Kanda stomps down on his emotions to such a degree that the container he's created for them is disturbingly small.

It's funny, Junior thinks, how Kanda takes any unwanted or complex emotion and forces it to becomes something simple. It becomes something he can understand and work with. Anger mostly, he remembers, as the memory breathes the breath of a sword at his throat.

Headquarters also bring the science division, though most of them followed Komui to Asia. It brings faces of those that played miniscule roles, many that aren't recorded into history. Most of them dead.

It brings forth a face that is branded all over the pages of the war, dead but remembered as the Destroyer of Time.

_Gone._

He's headed to the Asia branch first and the exorcist that is registered there. Junior goes over the profile of her that's imprinted in his memories, but only receives the expression he'd caused when he left.

_She'll never forgive me. _He knows it and he's glad.

"Junior"

Junior tilts his head towards the owner.

"Dio," he answers. It's the name given to all immediate backup successors.

Dio is tall and lanky with long black hair. His eyes set deep and almond shaped. Junior barely glances him over. Despite Bookman's monotonous snipes at how Dio is more naturally impartial, Junior still finds that the dislike directed at him is not imaginary.

Dio was once called Junior, before they got a message arrived from Bookman claiming a new successor and apprentice.

Being the keepers of history means using only the best. But being respected as the one best suited for the job doesn't mean that you're liked any better.

"We both leave tomorrow. May our ventures be fruitful," he says the customary farewell flawlessly.

_Ah, so he won't be seeing me off tomorrow._

Junior wonders if Dio realizes how bad at acting he is. He's too aloof, too flat. To record accurately you have to constantly border, almost breach that line of caring. You have to worm your way into people's hearts. People don't respond well to cold brick walls. You're allowed to make friends as long as they're the kind of friends you won't miss when they're gone.

To be Bookman means you have to break a lot of hearts.

Junior nods at him politely, ignoring the expected reply. "Take care of him, he's getting old."

"I don't need you to tell me that."

The bite in the tone makes Junior smile. Dio's brows furrow in distaste at the show of emotion.

The silence stretches while the desert winds howl around them.

Junior just smiles all the brighter and recites textbook words. "May the fruit we bear one another at our next meeting sweeten our knowledge."

.

* * *

.

Lenalee spends most of her time at her clinic. She loses herself in her work, patients and reports. This is her home. This is where she belongs. She may do some odd missions for the Order, but it's for herself too. She destroys the Akuma to keep her lifestyle. The war had been a tragic detour, one that should never have happened, but she is back on track with her life now. She's content living the life that had been hers once before, she has no need to be taken away from it again.

She has no need to see him again.

A head of fire-red hair, mischievous green eyes, and a lopsided easy grin. They all belonged to a person that was once part of her world. She would've burned this whole world to cinders for those that made up _her _world, him included. But he left her world willingly without a single glance back.

She remembers watching him leave from her window. He'd never slowed in his unhurried steps, eyes gazing off into something she could not see. Her brother called it the "Bookman stare". It's the stare that doesn't look at you but through you, gaging your worth in the weight of history.

"Lenalee."

She startles at her name and at the hand that is placed on her shoulder.

Komui stands behind her with a small frown. He's not happy that he is able to catch her unaware. It's troubling her more than he thought.

"Brother!" She forces a bright smile. "How impatient are you? You've been showing up here more than normal."

"I'm sorry to have to do this to you."

Her expression becomes blank. "Do you have a choice?"

"No."

"Then you have nothing to be sorry for."

Lenalee has always been slim, but looking at her now Komui finds she's too sharp and angular, the softness and curves weathered away by anxiety.

"You haven't been eating properly," Komui tells her, voice falling quiet.

"I've just been busy," she returns brusquely, not missing a beat. "For some reason everyone is falling off their ladders these days. I think it's Mr. Chin's fault. He was trying to show up all his fellow aging companions by fixing the roof himself. Trying to prove they're still able bodied or something. It's absolutely ridiculous."

"Lenalee …" He sees her trepidation. Komui takes a small step forward, but Lenalee takes one back. She looks away from him.

"I don't want to see Lavi again. I don't want to see the person that turned his back on everyone. _Friends_ don't do that!"

"Lenalee." He wishes he could do more for her. "Lavi is your friend "

"He is _not_," she hisses, "my _friend_. He's dead to me."

"Lavi didn't leave you, it was Bookman Junior that left you."

"It's the same. He had become Lavi by the end. He left as Lavi." Lenalee's words become fierce and spiteful. "If he's not Lavi anymore it's because he killed that part of himself along the way."

"He's always been a Bookman first and foremost. It's what he's been training for his entire life." Komui always feels like he loses his wit around his sister. He's too emotional with her. He can't keep himself composed the same way. Finding the right words for the one closest to him is the hardest of all. It's all some terrible joke played on him, he's sure of it. "Just treat him as you would Bookman when he comes around. You don't understand. The Bookman "

" You," she breathes, "don't understand Lavi. You weren't there when, when we made our promises."

The four of them had stood with hands piled up on top of each other. Kanda had glared daggers at her as she held his hand in hers. He thought it was stupid sentimental bullshit, but she thought he was secretly pleased regardless, even if he didn't realise it. Lenalee had made them promise. They'd promised to live and return to her. They were to return home so they could make more memories together.

Komui bows his head. "You're right, I wasn't there. But I'm here now. And I'm asking you to call him Bookman. He's not Lavi anymore."

Lenalee laughs, too delighted to be real. "Oh, course I know he isn't Lavi anymore. Haven't you been listening?" Her tone turns cold but her voice remains airy as she speaks, "Lavi's dead to me."

.

* * *

.

Kanda's heart throbs in his chest in a way it hasn't for years. Danger doesn't send it off this time, but anticipation.

"Is this report correct?" he asks, firm and unyielding as always.

The man opposite to him is as tall as he is wide. He towers over everyone, including Marie. He's a severe sort of man, and wishes more of his subordinates were like Kanda. Personally, Kanda finds him pathetic, talking all the time with nothing important to say. He's the new chief: Robert Strap.

Called Dick Strap behind his back. Kanda often hears idiots giggle about it.

"It was sent to me by Mr. Lee," Dick Strap replies, fat moustache twitching as he growls out the words.

No more needs to be said.

"I'm going to need to take leave for a while." Kanda never looks away from steady stream of ink printed on the page. He's been waiting most of his life for this.

Strap's sigh reminds Kanda of the heaving that only a dying man can perform, heavy in

its finality. He lights a cigar. "As I expected. Shame. Such a shame. You're the only one I trust to get anything done."

Silence is Kanda's answer, his chin tilting just so to indicate he's listening and waiting.

"But as I said before, it's as I expected." He pats the sweat off his balding scalp with an ironed handkerchief, initials embroidered golden on the corner. "I trust you'll keep us posted to your whereabouts."

"Yes."

"And no dawdling."

"Understood."

"I don't know what the world is coming to these days," Dick Strap starts. "The moment that everyone realizes that the world isn't going to end anymore they start to slack off. The world's not going to run itself just because it's not in perilous danger anymore," he huffs, much like an indignant steam engine with his skin flushed red and his cigar chugging out thick coils of smoke.

"Sometimes people need to gather all that remains before they can start working to piece everything back together." Kanda closes his eyes. When the war ended, all that had been left for him was what he'd started with. Nothing.

"That may be so," Strap continues to huff, "but it puts more work on the shoulders of good men."

"Like you?" The razor sharp curve of Kanda's mouth goes unnoticed.

Strap nods. "Like me. Like you. Both of us. That said, I understand this errand of yours is important to you. So you be off as soon as you can. The sooner you leave the sooner you'll be back. I want at least one competent person around here. Understand?"

The paper in Kanda's hand feels like all the things he's never had. He grips it until his knuckles turn bone white.

"Understood."

.

* * *

.

The night is silent in a way that reminds Allen a little of the moment before the final battle. They'd stood positioned at the arc he had hummed into existence, everyone too intoxicated with fear, determination, and feelings of "this is it", to make a sound.

He feels it now in the thrum of his chest, and imagines himself all the smaller for it. This is nothing like then. The world doesn't depend on this.

_No, but my peace of mind does. _

Golden stares from the many frames haunt him, glowing yellow even with silver moonlight. He feels them judging him, looking through him, the family that he was forced into that hated the whole savage world. Sometimes he wonders what they see with their inhuman gaze, everything beneath them and below the ground they walk on.

He goes in without knocking, knowing that she's awake and waiting for him. And she is, her eyes finding his immediately in the night washed room.

"Allen," she says, calling to him from her giant mound of pillows. She smiles teasingly. "I was wondering if you were ever going to come in."

The door shutting behind him resonates with the past. The arc sealing behind him as he sets forth into battle. He felt stronger back then.

"Road …"

She smiles at him patiently. It makes Allen feel somehow warmer even though she appears to be touched by death.

"Don't just stand there," she laughs, ragged. "Come here silly! This is like a dream come true. I always wished you'd come by in the middle of the night to sweep me off my feet."

The bed is soft and comfortable. Allen sits on it just as Road beckons him to, trying not to flinch as she rests her head in the little crevice of his shoulder.

"I know this is hard for you," she says, lacing her fingers in his. "I know why you only come at sunset. Only time I get any colour on my face, isn't it?"

"I'm sorry." He squeezes her fingers, cold in his. "I hurt you."

"The only one that has hurt me is myself. These feelings are my own."

Allen can't help but feel, deep in his gut, that he's broken her. Time passes slowly. During that period Allen has slumped to a horizontal position, Road nestled neatly in his arms. No words are exchanged in that time, only breaths. Allen has one hand threaded with hers and one threaded in her lank black hair. She smells sickly sweat.

"Allen."

"Yes?"

"Don't do this to yourself. I knew you'd never be able to love me back."

Allen has always noticed the way she would watch him, sunset golden eyes lazily following his form across the room. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be stupid. I'm okay with this. You came here, and that's what mattered." Road sticks her tongue out at him. "Stupid."

"And if I didn't come here?"

"Oh," she says dreadfully, amusement barely concealed, "you'd be sorry. I'd haunt you for the rest of your life throwing candles at you."

His mouth twists, left eye twitching. "Not one of your pointed candles I hope. Another close acquaintance with them may kill me."

"But that's the point. You were very pretty like that, I'll have you know. It was love at first stab."

Road laughs because she's insanely morbid. Allen also laughs, and it's probably because he's morbid too.

When their hysterics die down to quiet chuckles, Allen's stomach grows heavy, barren with only dread remaining.

"How long?"

She snickers, and he acknowledges that Road is more macabre than he. "Not long," she sing-songs. "Not long at all. Promise me that I'll be buried with an endless amount of flowers and candy. And burn me to ashes. Rotting sounds icky."

"You're not taking this serious at all."

She shrugs, boney blades digging into Allen. "I accepted my human death a long time ago."

Road fidgets restless beside him, oddly quiet, and Allen knows that the old side of her has stirred; weary, sad, and wise with too many years gone by unfulfilled.

"Once upon a time," she begins, quiet and nostalgic, "there was a girl that was born into a wealthy and loving family. Her lifestyle was the envy of all the other little girls. They would watch her skip down the street in fancy new clothes, between both parents with her hand in theirs.

"She was never a healthy girl though. She was often ill and weak. Her parents would use their human money to send for all the best doctors available. They would always leave her though, their heads shaking in condolence. She was dying, and there wasn't anything that anybody could do.

"This girl grew to accept her death. She drowned in the idea of it, fantasizing what it'd be like when she went. Would it hurt, sharp, fast and short? Or maybe it'd be like a slow poison, taunting her with every dying breath. She would dream of blood and pain and ending. She would dream of screams and tears and loss. She dreamed and dreamed and dreamed. She dreamed of everything but of miracles.

"But," and Road becomes alive, the shadows casting her skeletal fading before the light she speaks, "a miracle did happen."

"Noah," he whispers before he can stop himself.

"Yes," she agrees. "The Earl came when the blood she bled was no longer internal but external from the crosses lining her forehead. My forehead, my body healed, and I could now twist all my dreams to become reality. Humans are so very weak. They can't heal my ailments, prevent death. When I was human all I could ever see was my death, as a Noah I could see everyone else's instead."

Allen holds her as tight as he dares. He could break her so easily.

"So you see Allen, this isn't your fault at all. When you killed the Earl, when you destroyed the Noah in us all, I just reverted back to how I was before. You didn't kill me. It was being this weak human that killed me."

Tears slide down Allen's cheeks. "You're not weak." _I am. Especially now_.

"Humans are weak Allen. But you're special to me despite all that. You took me and Tyki away, even knowing that you'd be dead to them, your pretty little exorcist friends. I hated you for what you did to me, my family, yourself. But I loved you more. I still love you. You who could actually love the Akuma, the only creatures more pitiful than humans. You couldn't love me before because I was a Noah, and you can't love me now because I'm human."

"No, Road." Allen shakes his head, eyes running freely with grief. "That's not why."

"It is," she insists. "You can't give your heart away to a lost cause. I understand that. You think of Mana and that screws your insides up thinking about it. You are a master of hiding and revealing only the necessary when necessary Allen Walker. And you're stupid for feeling bad. Dummy."

"You're right." He feels as if he'd been soaking in his own misery and Road has finally decided to wring him out and hang him to dry. "I am stupid."

"As long as you admit it." She curls into his warmth. She'd lied. She does feel the draft of the window, and it goes straight to her bones. But the window serves to remind her that there's more than this lifeless room, and as Road finds breathing harder with each passing day, she needs the escape even more desperately. "Will you stay here until the sun rises?"

"Yes." He smiles. And then, "You know Road, if things were different, I think I could've loved you." When she stops hiding in the shadows of her dreams she's real and warm. After the war, when he left those he loved behind, it was Road that helped him pull himself together, her own woes put aside for his.

"Don't tell me that now," she cries, her mouth beaming wide. "I'm not ready to die in peace anymore Allen Walker. Now I really will haunt you."

Allen is aching and happy at the same time. His tears soon follow hers. "Then don't die and get better."

They laugh together, broken, but tension relieves their bodies with every sob.

.

* * *

.

She looks tired, Bookman thinks. Lenalee stands stiffly by her brother's side, looking positively lethal with that clipboard of hers.

Despite the dark smudges present under her eyes and the sallow skin from fatigue, he thinks she's gotten prettier. Her girlish youth has faded leaving behind a strong woman of twenty-four. Her breasts and hips have grown and rounded, all traces of baby fat gone from her face. She's beautiful, the violet of her eyes burning strong though the mist of fatigue.

"Mr. Lee, Ms. Lee." He dips his head in a polite bow. "It's been some time. Sorry if this brings any inconveniences. But since this involved a war that plagued the world for centuries, doing a little follow-up on some of the key players is necessary to complete the records."

Bookman pretends not to see the narrowing of Lenalee's eyes. He is correct. She really hasn't forgiven him.

Komui shakes his hand. "Of course we understand, but please also understand that there is still work to be done. While I will assist you in any way possible, please take into consideration that many residing here have their own agendas."

Ah, Bookman understands. Around Lenalee business only. "Of course."

Lenalee leaves after the expected social greeting, her forced politeness holding out for only so long. To be honest, Bookman's surprised she showed up at all.

"So tell me," Komui says, leading him towards his chambers, "how are things? You just visited the Asian branch, right? Sorry we're not there to make this easier for you. Lenalee took her practice up here, and getting her to leave is like trying to convince Reever to let me feed Bak to the birds." Komui's grin turns demented. "You know, Bak is still after my sweet darling Lenalee after all these years. I thought he'd notice the looks Fo sends him, but I guess it can't be helped that an octopus like him is mentally challenged."

Komui shrugs like it's a sad thing and Bookman can't help but be relieved that Komui is still the same; fluctuating moods, sister-complex and all.

"I hear you're Bookman now."

"Well, close enough. This is my final task before I get the whole ceremony and whatnot, but I'm to go by Bookman instead of Bookman Junior. I suppose so we get used to it." He follows Komui down the brightly lit hallways, a cream colour that it meant to be inviting.

Komui seems amused. "A Bookman forgetting?"

"They like being thorough."

The rest of the short walk carries out in silence, not that Bookman cares either way. They stop at a simple wooden door. It's clean and new, like everything else in this place. He touches the wood and feels the texture of smooth varnish. His mind is filled with trivial memories like this. Just simple things he'll never forget.

"Thanks for showing me the way," Bookman says, taking care to let gratitude shadow his tone.

"No problemo! You can pay me back by letting me hide here when Reever comes looking for me!"

Bookman stares at Komui, hard. "I can't believe you haven't changed at all. Or that Reever hasn't left you by now."

Komui pulls a face of the ought most distress. "You're so cruel to me! Just once I wish someone would understand me. Where's Jerry when you need him?"

Dead actually, but Bookman isn't going to bring that up. Komui's recollection is probably close to as good as Dio's. Not everyone could have his once in a blue moon's right eye. It's why the old man snatched him up right away from all the debris of destruction all those years ago. His path had been set the moment he'd recounted every splatter of blood that day with horrifying ease.

"Are you free later this evening to talk?" asks Bookman.

"I should be." The corridor is cool in this part of the building, and Komui feels the goose pimples rise inside his sleeves. "Bookman, I don't mean to be rude, but I need you to finish up your business as quick as you can. I don't have any problems with your presence here, but … well, some people have more trouble letting go of the war than others."

Lenalee's glare still burns into him at the back of his mind. "I understand," he answers, the ghost of humour to his grin becoming empty.

.

* * *

.

Days have gone by since Lavi's arrival. Lenalee spends all of it in her clinic. It's harder than she expects, seeing that familiar head of hair and lazy grin. He's taller now with about four inches added to his height.

Lavi hasn't come to her yet. It's something she both curses and is grateful for. Part of her wishes to get it over with. The other part struggles to keep her wits together in preparation for the unavoidable encounter. Every time she spots him Lenalee can feel her emotions turning cold with a terrible anger. To her liar is written on every inch of his skin and in all of his movements.

It isn't Lavi but someone with his face, voice and scent. The title Bookman tastes of sawdust on her tongue, and she can't bring herself to say it.

When she arrives at home far past her bedtime, she finds Komui sitting stiffly on her bed. Her stomach drops away. She knows she won't like what she hears.

"Lenalee," he begins to say, and she will have none of it.

"Say what you mean to say, then leave. I don't want to argue with you right now."

"Alright." His expression straightens, no-nonsense, like he's sending her on a mission. "I think you should go with Bookman to headquarters."

Lenalee fills with so much emotion she knows she'll explode in a fit of something awful. She bites her tongue though, and lets him continue.

"I don't want you to go just to sort out the problems between you and him, but between you and Kanda." His lips press together. "I know you're unhappy with how you left it. It'll be killing two birds with one stone."

"I don't want to travel with him." The flickering of the candle makes her fade in and out of the heavily shadowed room. Her fists clench tight enough to leave crescent moon dents.

"Just as Bookman needs to do this follow-up to close the book on this war, you need to reconcile your anger to move on."

The ache of her jaw grows more pronounced as she grits her teeth firmer together. "I'm just fine without him."

Komui stands, a sigh escaping him with the defeated slump of his shoulders. "Just sleep on it, and I'll see you in the morning."

He kisses her brow, soft and affectionate, before leaving her alone.

Lenalee crumbles to the floor, palms pressed to her aching eyes, wondering what has happened to her world.

.

* * *

.

Kanda has been travelling for days, his destination taking him across miles and miles of land. He's waiting at the pier now. The boat is to take him to America.

There's been a delay as the waves roar high and crash into the rocks with loud wet smacks. He stands before the ocean, his dark blue eyes brightening. The gale blows the spray sharply into his face. The salt stings his eyes.

He stares across the ocean at something only he can see, the power of its tumbling waves stirring the coals in him to a hot white.

.

* * *

.

Allen sits with Tyki standing behind them. His gloved fingers trace idle patterns in the snow before a tomb stone that's littered with a hideous amount of flowers and candy. Both men adorn sharp black suits, eyes cast low on a rainbow of petals and dyed sugar.

"I'm cruel," Allen says to the frosty winter air. The steam trailing from his mouth gets whisked away by the passing wind.

That Tyki can easily hear him doesn't matter to Allen at all.

"Oh?" Tyki lights up a cigarette, the drag warming up his lungs. "Why do you say that?"

"I told her," he says, loudly, as if to confess to the whole world his sins. "I told her, that if things were different. Well, if things were different, I think I could've loved her." He hears her laughter lined with sobs while he stares at her grave.

"Well, I suppose some would consider you cruel." Tyki blows smoke. "But it couldn't be said that she wasn't cruel either. Didn't she stab your eye?"

Allen snorts. "Didn't you destroy my left arm and get one of your butterfly pets to eat a hole in my heart?"

Allen can't help but think that Tyki's amused grin is inappropriate.

"And yet," Tyki chuckles low and smooth like satin, "you're here, with your eye, arm, and heart fully intact."

"My heart is not fully intact. If my innocence goes so does it. Besides, all those injuries hurt. A lot."

"And you stabbed me twice, broke her heart, and are responsible for destroying our happy Noah family."

"I'm sorry." Allen rolls his eyes. "I don't condone mass genocide. Especially if it's against the entirety of the human race." Allen wonders how he got to a point where he can playfully bicker over the doom of mankind. He blames it entirely on Tyki and Road.

"You don't condone it, but you saved Road and I, didn't you? And we were the ones attempting the terrible deed."

"Don't remind me. You guys always remind me."

"Then stop complaining."

Their banter dies, and Allen thinks of Road, Tyki too. He remembers the Noah in him dying with the Earl, pain singing torture along all of his nerves in one final act of spite. It must have been worse for them, for those that embraced their Noah. He and the fourteenth constantly fought for his body, never blending to become one.

At that time the world had turned upside down with ruin and chaos; there they lay, broken amongst it all, barely breathing and so very, very human. He had made his choice then, Lenalee's promise whispers brokenly to him every day, but he doesn't regret it.

"Well boy," Tyki says, the harsh force of his tone setting off alarms in Allen's mind. "I guess this is where we part ways." His fingers flick the burnt butt away.

Allen's world stills, sudden and glazed.

"What?" Allen scrambles frantically to his feet. "What do you mean this is where we part ways?"

Tyki grins, crooked and for once not smooth but brittle. "Tell me, Boy, Allen, what happens if we go back to that house that smells of death? That place where death haunts the hallways. That poor sad mockery of a life with its pretty golden bricks and garden."

"It's something," Allen says without any real strength. "It's home."

"It was home because Road was there. She held everything together, even while dying." He puts a hand on Allen's cheek, noticing the contrast of his bronze to Allen's porcelain. They look so different; Allen full of sweetness and gentle smiles, himself suave with danger and alluring as sin.

Allen leans into his palm, and Tyki knows what he must do.

"You and I are alike," he tells the porcelain boy with a wicked smile." I've always thought so. We ease into the social gaps, pretty smiles and pretty words. We lie with our entire bodies, knowing how to get what we want without them knowing it. But we don't pick our homes, not by choice. If it was left to us we'd wonder forever. We're clay that can mould into any shape, but while we may be able to fill in the gaps, we were never the intended piece for that spot.

"Road though, she's not like us. She may toss out pretty words and smiles with the best of them, but she's glue. She can take wanderers like us and stick them together. She can make a home for herself anywhere; she just pieces it together for herself. Probably because she's selfish and doesn't like to let go.

"But she's gone now. If we go back to that house we'll just be wasting our fronts on each other. We'd fuck and then fuck some more. There's affection, but neither of us are grounded, and in different ways. You know this too."

Allen does know it. He knows it in the way Road held both their hands to her flat chest, her heart beating slow and lungs rattling in pain. In how Allen holds Tyki's hand in the secret of night, desperate for escape and separated in the morn.

"I just don't know where to start." Allen hears Mana's words in his head, the ones that tell him to keep moving forward. The words imply he doesn't need one, but having a destination helps.

Wind blows snow into Tyki's face, and he squints eyes that flash golden at sunset. He shrugs. "You could try living your life again. From the sounds of it, you haven't been living. You might have been forced to cling to life, but there's a difference. You had to run ahead in life so quickly that you missed all the details. The Noah didn't take me until I had at least lived like a boring normal person. I think it's your turn."

Childhood to Allen is often a blur of cold, hunger, and later on debts, courtesy of bastard number one, Cross Marian.

The sigh Allen produces is resigned, wry, but not unhappy. "I guess this is goodbye then, Mr. Mikk. Or will I catch you in hobo form stripping poor travelers down once more?"

Tyki smirks like a shark, baring his teeth. "You might. But I'll know not to play you this time and just give whatever poor sod their stuff back."

"What's this? No confidence in your proud poker abilities? For shame."

"If only you had any shame at all. Your cheating abilities make me question your morals."

"I don't want to hear anything from you until you can prove it."

An hour more they stay in each other's company before parting at Road's final resting place. Allen receives one last kiss from Tyki, soft on the corner of his mouth, and speaks his last words to Road.

Duty leaves him with a heart that doesn't know what freedom is. He stares straight into the overcast sky, pregnant with millions of snowflakes. He'll keep walking, but for some reason, he feels like retracing his steps a little, footprints larger and restamping the older ones.

Allen leaves the grave smothered with candy and flowers after Tyki, the ghost of a hand letting go of his, forever small and ageless.

Her giggles ring in his head, bittersweet but comforting. He's leaving a home that no longer exists.

.

* * *

So I'm not going to lie, I have no idea when I'm going to update. Kanda is being a complete bitch to write.


	2. Part 2

Yay, have Part 2. Now if I could only finish this story I wouldn't be a complete failure. Thank you for all the kind words directed previously my way, it sent my heart a flutter.

* * *

**Mending the Divide: Part 2**

Bookman stands in front of Lenalee's clinic. He can hear the old man scolding him for just standing outside it like an idiot. For ten minutes. He wants to convince himself that his procrastination is due to strategic planning for those that despise him, but that's bullshit. He doesn't know how to face her with complete Bookman indifference, and that's why he has to hear his own mind impersonate the lecturing old man. It's difficult, sometimes, that his memory can remember every disappointed detail with such perfect precision. He can never escape from a single talk they've ever had.

He enters with the readjustment of his mask. Lenalee has treated him as a Bookman plagued with disease, but not as the ghost Lavi. So that's how he'll act. It's who he is.

The lights are bright, and he blinks everything back into focus. Everything is composed of sharp clean angles and smells of disinfectant.

Suddenly, Bookman's mouth gets wiped dry with shock. His stomach stirs uncomfortably as his gaze falls on Lenalee Lee.

She sits in her chair, a monstrous piece that looks as ugly as it does cozy. Her back is ramrod straight, her hands folded neatly in her lap, her feet crossed and tucked away by the base of the chair. Lenalee's chin glances up and Lavi can feel her judgement.

Her body language and actions suggest that she's been expecting him and that makes him nervous.

"Good evening Ms. Lee. I would apologize for dropping in on you like this, but it seems you've been expecting me."

She nods slow, her focus on him never shifting. "I have."

With practiced ease Bookman removes the tension from his body. He closes his one exposed eye as he grins, hiding away any cold calculation that may come through. "I'm curious to know how you knew I was coming. Is this that women's intuition I've heard so much about? The one that gets me sympathetic looks from ladies for being born a man?"

"Something like that."

Bookman has trouble reading her, and that makes him feel lost. This should be easy, he knows her, more than he should. That last farmer boy, Ermanno, Lavi found him transparent after one conversation. Lenalee though, they've shed sweat, blood, and tears together, more than that.

Lenalee's form seems too dark in the brightly lit room. Bookman supposes that this is the difference between being part of her world or outside of it. Recording from this new point of view he actively ignores the inward clench that indicates that perhaps only having memories of being a part of it isn't enough.

"So," he says, "care to fill me in on anything since the war's ended?"

"If I may Bookman, there's something I need to talk to you about before that."

Bookman notices her knuckles strained white and her unbound hair that pools over taught shoulders.

"Oh course." Bookman smiles, focusing his internal lens until she's merely ink on paper.

.

* * *

.

It's only been a couple days and already Lenalee feels that this is a stupid idea. She tries to entertain her thoughts with other things, mostly blaming her brother because it's entirely his fault, but anything that doesn't involve Bookman will do.

Everything about her is stiff, and she hates that. A slow tired ache forms, crawling into her muscles as her body continues on unwavering. She's strung too tightly and ready to snap at a moment's notice.

Not Lavi now, but Bookman, watches her out of the corner of his good eye. The food cart has come around and she focuses on that, pretending not to notice the flash of careful green.

"I'll have this one," she tells that elderly lady selling pastries on the train.

The lady nods, the gentle crinkles in her face extend the smile along the aged creases.

Lenalee thanks her. She sits, chewing slowly.

"You have me baffled Ms. Lee," Bookman says into the space between them.

Lenalee hates the emptiness between them, but not because she finds it awkward. Even if every rustle of clothing and page turned strikes the air unnaturally loud. Silence is simply the middle ground they keep between them until one of them has to talk.

"Is that so?" She keeps everything flat and hollow.

"Ah," he goes on to explain. "You can barely tolerate my company, yet you ask to accompany me to headquarters. I thought you'd be celebrating the moment I left, not _following _me along."

Lenalee bites down the anger. "I'm going to see Kanda."

Lavi, Bookman, Bastard, smiles at her excuse with a little too much teeth before he smiles in good fun. "Kanda? Really? I thought you two don't talk anymore. Which is really too bad. Just between you and me, I always thought he liked you. Whether he knew that himself, well, I couldn't say. His blade was always sharp, but he always liked to pretend his emotions away to the point that they always got muddled in his head. I guess that's why you'd have to go to him first, huh."

"Something's come up. Don't pretend you understand. Though you're awfully good at pretending aren't you?" Guilt makes her lippy. Lenalee hates how it makes her feel childish.

"Oh? What? Tell me. It must be something impressive, you know, to make you come all this way. After _all this time_."

"I have no obligation to tell you. That's Kanda's story, not mine." Drawing open the curtain grandly, she makes a display of herself to say that this conversation is over. It's very gray outside, the clouds lying low like lumps of dead flesh, mushy and bloated with water.

"Oh well," the newest Bookman shrugs. "I'll find out when I get there."

Lenalee watches as the ghostly flesh of the clouds roll lazily in colourless hues. Nothingness settles once more, and again she hopes it stays.

_This really is a stupid idea. _

_._

* * *

_._

The boat rocks and Kanda's stomach lurches. He's never had a problem with boats and he can't figure out what's different this time. There's the sound of gentle creaks that remind Kanda of old man Zhu when he moves too suddenly. It is rhythmic and absolutely nauseating. Kanda takes steady breaths that taste like sea salt, both fishy and cathartic.

The taste is washed away and replaced by the hot swish of ginger tea. It helps to calm his churning stomach, and Kanda makes a point to drink it religiously.

When the nausea had first hit, dizzying and disorienting his senses, it was when the waves had at last settled to the elegant roll of a lady dancing. Before, they closer resembled a chaotic drunken brawl, with his health somehow perfectly fine then. It had made the others weary when he'd walked along deck as if it were still and not tipping violently, the squall for all appearances not able to touch him at all.

In this calm aftermath of the storm, that's when everything started clawing into his senses and ruining his balance. The gentle rolls of the ocean make him feel human and weak, with bile trying to force its way up his throat. The days easily tumble into the next with sunny skies that hold no urgency for action. His body lulls with the days, stirring and rolling until his stomach empties.

It's the destination that he keeps his mind focused and in-tuned with. Many of the passengers are off to make something brand new of themselves. They fall into their dreams, searching for the edges to pull it clean from their minds and to work it into their reality. Kanda doesn't know what to make of them. Their mouths blubber on about hardships but their eyes show nothing of the despair that he'd been born into and grown up with.

Kanda traces his fingers over his face, taking in all of its shapes and his frown. He wonders what answers he'll find in America, but he doesn't expect to find his dreams there. His dreams are filled with lotuses that won't let him die, no matter how he is used for experiments, pushing and pushing him. Roots coil around him keeping him in the world, the flower drinking up his wounds and life like honeyed milk.

Kanda birth came with a purpose; it's why he's alive at all. His parents are the Order, but somehow he can't keep on wondering. He'll go back when this is over, but for this one moment he's living for himself.

.

* * *

.

It reeks of animals, sweat, and grime, but Allen can't quite keep the silly grin off his face. Part of him has always loved the circus, despite that, he still never thought he'd end up in one again.

Make-up is being painted onto his face. For a clown it should be tacky and exaggerated. The girl bends over him, chewing her bottom lip as she carefully applies colours on his face. The drying paint makes him itchy.

"Perfect!" she coos at him, ridiculously large and glittery eyelashes trembling as she fawns over him. "You're such a handsome and cute clown Allen."

"I thought I was supposed to look comical." Allen picks up a mirror to see his face, his left side painted white while the right side is black. The silver glitter accents his cheek bones and Allen finds that yes, he looks handsome for a clown, the bright colours around his eyes making him appear more mysterious than humorous.

"But that'd be such a waste on a face like yours! You were made to be a clown, Allen. You don't need the silly and bizarre make-up that the others need." She leans over him to pin back white tuffs of hair. It sticks out in awkward angles, exposing his pentacle-shaped scar outlined in red.

Allen smiles teasingly. "And what's that supposed to mean Jane? Are you saying I'm some kind of natural fool?" He's entertained at the thought, having often made himself appear that way if only to survive and keep moving forward.

Jane, also known as her stage name Princess, is a very misleading woman. Offstage and on the streets she can melt into the crowd like butter, nondescript and plain. Onstage she's the Princess that commands her loyal subjects: lions, tigers and bears. While performing she'll tighten her whip with such confidence that everyone can't help but be mesmerised. She wears her beauty through her actions, the strong line on lean legs and with the seductive swing in her step. The smile she has can consume her face and dazzle suitors into submission, much like her beasts.

Normally, Jane attaches herself to females, desiring the softness they can give, but she took to Allen immediately. Not romantically, but with the overbearing fondness of an older sister with a brother complex. 'It has to do with your eyes,' she had told him once with her red face over too many empty cups of moonshine. 'It's like they're begging for love'.

Allen makes sure to be careful around her. Even if they're dear, he's learned it's safer to be weary. It's how Tyki and him are alike.

"What do you mean by what do _I_ mean? Look at you! You're a clown through and through. From that scar on your face to your white hair. Clowns are supposed to stand out, but you do that all on your own. I won't even go into your crazy acrobatics, Tessa went into such a rage when she found out you weren't going to join her as a tumbler." Princess sighs, the sheen of her red lips curving up. "It's like you're God's chosen clown," she jokes, even when all that comment does is make Allen's left arm twitch.

The cross in his hand burns him with its energy, the glove clinging sticky on his skin. The inside of his tent is cool and dry. The harshness of winter has faded, but the cold still lingers making old scars ache. The one he feels the most is the one that he caused himself with a weapon that should not have harmed him, innocence that is part of his flesh.

"God's chosen clown, huh?" Allen snorts, the amusement coursing along his scar continuing a joke only he understands. "Close enough. I'm certainly God's personal fool."

.

* * *

.

"Bookman, you say? It's always nice to see youth that work properly." Strap bustles the not that young Bookman into his office. Lenalee has run off to visit the Matron before she could be snatched up. Bookman wonders if the head nurse can still glare men that have murdered hundreds into submission. His guess is yes.

"That so? Well, I guess it could be said that our whole life's purpose is our work." The office had once been Komui's, but it looks entirely different now. The piles of paper are few and no longer litter the room in alarmingly high towers that threaten passersby. Everything is pristine and neat. It smells mostly of nothing, only the vague hint of a fine brandy in the air. It's odd for Bookman, who remembers this room always smelling exclusively of coffee, ink, and a well lived in musk that only severe sleep deprivation can cause.

Its difference unsettles something in Bookman, and he sits in a stiff new leather chair, the comfy, broken, and stained couch long since replaced.

"How long do you think you'll be staying? I like to keep on top of things, so do keep me posted." Bookman notices that the man seems to heave when he talks, his large chest expanding like some great balloon and deflating with too much force. He wonders where all the subtlety in headquarters has gone, this building no longer a cave of secrets waiting to be discovered.

Bookman pretends to mull over the question, an ink blemished hand brought to his chin for show. "Couldn't say, depends on how cooperative everyone is and how lady luck decides to deal her cards. I overheard that Yuu's not going to be back for a _long _time."

"Yuu?" The large man blinks for one confused moment. "You mean Kanda? Kanda Yuu? Oh yes, I remember reading about it in the reports. You were once an exorcist and fought together with Kanda. Wish there were more like him. No matter how much I lecture the others they never take their work seriously. Especially Timothy. You remember him I'm sure."

"Of course. The boy with one of the more interesting innocence weapons. His closest acquaintance to death wasn't because of the Akuma or Noah, you know." Bookman offers a half-smile. "The Chief wasn't very happy when he took over Lenalee's body and used it to flirt with Kanda … amongst many others. The Komurin he sent on Timothy that time was lethal. I'll never forget that."

The Chief eyes him carefully. "Do you ever forget anything?"

"Well, no. But I don't think Lenalee will forget that incident either. Kanda might have though, he likes to try to force himself to forget traumatic moments of emotions that don't involve anger." He chuckles at the memory. Life at the old Order was as entertaining as it was deadly. "What they don't know is that it was my idea."

Strap's lips form a line of disapproval. "You surprise me Bookman, I expected you to act more … more scholarly."

Bookman's amusement fades, the cleanliness of the room suddenly stifling. "My apologies, but I'm sure you're aware that we often take on aliases to make work go smoother for us. The persona I had chosen at the time was a bit on the mischievous side. I hope you understand."

The line melts into something a little less strict. "Yes, the files mentioned that as well."

"So, do you know when Kanda Yuu will be returning? I heard no one has a clue. It's why Ms. Lee came, and I think she'd like to get back to her patients in China ASAP." He drums his fingers along the armrest.

"That's entirely up to him."

Strap doesn't seem too keen on sharing information. Bookman frowns. He chalks it up to Strap being married to his duty and confidentiality. It's different from Komui who keeps a secret as if it never existed, but at the same time is able let them slip with a terrifying calculation should the situation call for it. Something tells him that Strap's that type to huff and puff until he explodes before he gives away anything. If only out of sheer bullheadedness.

"I suppose you're not going to tell me what the mission is either."

"It's personal, so again, you'll have to ask him."

Bookman stands, red hair flopping into his face. "I'll keep you posted, but from the sounds of it I'll be here a while."

.

* * *

.

Headquarters seems to have taken all the feelings she's ever had about it and smashed it together in some gruesome replica. The buildings may have changed once, but what it stands for is forever inconsistent in her heart. It's been her jail cell, her home, her supposed grave, her pain, her happiness, her refuge. Now it's everything. It fills her with nostalgia so deep that she is flooded with sensations both cruel and kind.

Everything is different but the same. The air is lighter now, faces filled with dreams to be unfolded instead of the heavy atmosphere of those just hoping to survive another day. The joy isn't the same though; there is no familiarity to it. The laughs are all different, they don't bark with the same amount of edge, or chuckle with the same earnest kindness.

The stares her way aren't the same. They're kind, but they don't flicker with any recognition. The food is still delicious, but it doesn't have the special touch that Jerry's did.

Timothy is here, but she can hardly recognize him. He's gotten so big, with widened shoulders and long legs. If it wasn't for the large jewel embedded in his forehead she might of walked right by him. It wasn't until he smiled, beaming with a hoot of laughter, that she felt any sense of home. He'd dragged her everywhere and anywhere, until everyone knew that she was Lenalee, _the_ exorcist.

She almost wishes he hadn't. Lenalee doesn't like the worship in the eyes of those that look at her. They've never talked to her before. They've only heard of how she killed Lulubell with the sharp heel of her innocence, the facts all blown out of proportion. The stories they tell of the war are soaked with glory and dramatic misery, leaving out the small details, the little things that often hurt so much more.

Time passes by at the Order, but it's long and never ending. Old friends have come by request of Bookman, but they're only a small comfort. From Miranda's tentative smile to Marie's unseeing eyes. Their stays are never long, having found lives for themselves both inside and outside the Order. Lenalee's happy for them, but she wonders what she's doing here. Kanda hasn't returned, and time wears at her nerves and sense of purpose.

It's after visiting the Matron a few times that she realises that she's not happy with her life. It drenches her cold, wet with confusion. Looking back at herself, all she sees is the damsel in distress. It makes her feel weak and useless.

A week goes by; full of much indecision and wretched frustration, but she's finally makes up her mind.

She finds Bookman in the library, hidden behind stacks of paper and books. He doesn't notice her until she's right in front of him. The tomb he's curled around is massive, written in a tiny loopy font, a magnifier ballooning the words as he goes down the page. Surprise is written into his very being when his focus finds Lenalee, becoming alarm when he tries to make sense of her expression.

"I'm not waiting here anymore," she says, a missing part of her returning, breath coming more easily to support her words. "I'm going after Kanda. I need to be the one that goes to him. He deserves that. So." Bookman is flabbergasted at her, staring openly now. Elation comes to her, that she can do this to him. "You have a choice. You can spend your days here and wait for him, or you can come with me and go to him."

"W-wait a second." He flinches at his own stutter. The book is placed down with care even as she sees him fret. "You're leaving? But we don't even know where he is."

She's smug before she can help it, hands on hips with her face tilted up. "Just because you can't con information out of Strap doesn't mean that I can't be resourceful. I've known where he's been headed since the beginning. So make your choice. To follow or not to follow? Either way I'm leaving tomorrow."

.

* * *

.

It's noon when Kanda's arrives at his destination. He's pissed. He could've been here several hours ago, but the barber's son couldn't tell east from west even with a functional compass.

The village is small, and after asking several questions he's homicidal. Dead, they tell him, that small talk drawl colouring their words. Damn shame they say while they shake their heads in displayed pity. Sickness took her, making her mad as she spoke nonsense on her deathbed. But there's a grave for that poor soul, just west of here on top of the hill. They ask about him, curiosity for the stranger urging them to pry. All Kanda's sees is the desire to produce the next hot gossip. Kanda closes down then, turning his veins to ice. Walking away he ignores the glances that label him as an outsider.

To the west there's a thick bush of tree with moss consuming all the surfaces like a green disease. It smells of earth, rot, and peace. The path that he follows is small and almost overgrown. All that's left of it are small patches of brown dirt that trail off into the thicket.

Kanda's soundless when he reaches the small graveyard, steps quieter than ghosts, his breathing slow and unheard.

It doesn't take long before the he finds what he's looking for: Mai Kobayashi. The letters are carved into the grave, amateur work if Kanda's any judge, likely done by a loved one.

The ground is soft with moss as Kanda kneels with one knee up and the other kissing the earth. It's strange, this sensation inside of him. He has always had that pride of disciplined emotions, strict and unyielding. It seems pointless, now that he's hollowed out with nothing left to be restrained. Everything's so green, beautiful, and tranquil, but Kanda can't feel any of it, gravestone looming in front of him with imperfect lettering.

He's too late, the thought suddenly strikes when his rigidness leaves him. The words of the villagers never really quite sunk in, his mind too stuck to its own single rail. He has found her at last, but she's dead.

Kanda's head lowers to his chest.

"Hey, Mister. Why are you here?"

Kanda startles up into a round face. She's tiny, everything about her small and weak. Her bare arms are milk and her eyes are honeyed mirrors of the vast open sky. There's something about her that makes Kanda's silence forced and not chosen, the air caught in his lungs.

The child blinks down at him, fearlessly edging closer until she's within arms reach. Her movements are like a willow in the summer breeze, gray dress too large and slipping off a narrow shoulder. Dirt smudges her cheeks like a blush meant to decay while grass stains her knees.

She ignores Kanda's silence with childish aloofness, continuing to chatter on. "I was collecting flowers for Daddy when I heard Jon talk about a man with _long _hair. Jon's always so loud." Her nose wrinkles in distaste. "Said someone was looking for Mommy. Do you know Mommy? Is that why you're by her sleeping place?"

In an instant her face is too close to his. He inhales, exhales. Everything is hitting him too fast, and he doesn't know what to expect. Her eyes light up, cheeks rounding into a grin.

"Wow. You look just like Mommy." Small hands run over his face, smelling of soil and of flowers. "Feel like her too."

Panic flutters in Kanda's chest like a butterfly he can't seem to pin down. The girl is tiny, delicate, but the weight of her hands on his face is heavy and keeps him rooted to the spot.

Her smile is sunshine piercing through him, dazzling him until all the lotuses from his vision fade.

"Hey Mister, why don't you come home with me."

.

* * *

.

The owner is the kind of person that more often than not is taken for a fool. Sam is a large man with an equally large heart. Laughter booms grandly while he smacks his barrel of a stomach. His face is portly but overrun by laugh lines. Everybody in the circus loves him.

"Allen, m'boy!" Sam slings a meaty arm around Allen's shoulder. "Great job tonight! Great job. You've really helped pick things up around here. I know the tumblers wanted you, but I guess you knew what you're talking about when you said that it was the clown's life for you. Has anyone told you that it's like you were born to do it?"

Allen's smile is wry thinking of Jane. "Something along those lines, yes."

"So tell me lad, how is it that you got to be so good at it. Even if you're a natural your movements speak of much experience. And you told me you spent the last five years taking care of a friend. You're not so out of practise as you claimed."

Five years, huh? It felt simultaneously longer and shorter than that. His only regret is how his cowardice hurt Road. He'll make it up to her somehow, living as he always has, remembering her childish face throughout. Guess he'll never know her age now. "But it's true. I'm not as in shape as I used to be."

Sam howls, smacking his round girth like he always does. "That so? Passed your prime are you. What kind of monster were you?"

What kind of monster is he? Allen remembers the final battle, his claw, black as sin, clutching his head drenched hot in blood. His innocence had burned something unholy in his heart, the grey of his eyes flickering to a demonic gold, tongue dipping out to lick the blood. The desire to kill the Earl had blinded him when the music had flooded his head.

"Monster?" Allen had learned how to lie with his whole body. He uses that knowledge now. "It wasn't anything like that. I told you I used to be a street kid. I even travelled with a different circus for a while."

"So you grew up being a performer. That explains it. You should talk to the rest of the crew more. The longer it takes for you to straighten out your history the more crazy their stories will get. Right now they have you pegged for as someone that used to be a slave for a terrible womanizing drunkard that beat you if you weren't entertaining. Then one day you escaped his clutches only to become involved in some gang holy war, learning death defying moves while fighting for your life, somehow coming through as the hero."

Allen is speechless.

"Actually, Jane added on more yesterday after one too many cups. To explain that scar of yours. Said that during the gang war some man cursed your name as they carved that star in your forehead in vengeance." Sam shakes his head, second chin wobbling. "Crazy bastards aren't they?"

Allen blinks. The circus is starting to unnerve him as everyone is wildly guessing almost truths. Allen can't decide if they're perceptive or just lucky.

"Don't worry," Allen says kindly with a touch of sadness, as if remembering something particularly painful. "I'll straighten everything up. I was just afraid to tell them some things about myself. I shouldn't let them go on thinking that my life is that adventurous. Just … it's still hard to think about at times … I was abandoned you see, in the middle of winter. I just don't want them to see me crying … I'm the clown after all, right? "

Sam's eyes become teary watching Allen shrink in on himself. He doesn't even notice the wicked gleam in Allen's eyes while promising to talk to the others for him.

Everyone loves Sam. If there's anyone that can hush up the rumours about Allen's past, it's him.

.

* * *

.

They're on the train again, but Bookman feels like he's lost the edge. Lenalee is nodding off across from him, the sway of her head moving with the movement of the train. It's her lead they're following, not his, and suddenly this isn't his duty anymore. It's her own personal mission, and he's just tagging on for the ride.

Bookmen are masters of tagging along with the promise of recording history, but this isn't right somehow. It's too similar to when he was Lavi. The moment they started to move to her game plan he stopped feeling like Bookman. Everything is more vivid and real; he's a part of this world and not just an observer. There's no alias though, he has no character for himself to live through.

If he was smart he would've just remained at head quarters until Kanda returned. When Lenalee strode into his corner of the library overflowing with purpose, that should've been his first sign to hightail it and run. She has this way of bending whatever she chooses to her will, Bookman or not. It'd been because she was so broken over Allen's death that Bookman thinks he was able to escape at all the first time.

He remembers the promise that the four of them made. Allen's gentle timbre resonated with so much conviction and quiet strength, his promise awe-inspiring and filled with endless light. Kanda scowled and ranted the whole time, the corners of his mouth tight with the words he'd never say. Lavi had said his words jovially, cracking inappropriate jokes at Kanda's threats. Lenalee though, Bookman remembers the shivers she had caused. Kanda's threats are nothing compared to hers. After the promise of returning to her was made, Lavi couldn't help but feel that he was tricked into committing himself for the rest of his life, like a shotgun wedding.

Picturing Lenalee at the time only reaffirmed his belief that she is more persuading than a shotgun.

"What are you doing to me_?" Old man will kill me_, he thinks. He thinks it while watching the rise and fall of her chest.

.

* * *

.

The inn they stay at is small but clean. The interior decorating is an eyesore, colours clashing like the explosion of fireworks with tacky ornaments littering the walls. It's comfortable though, the mattress soft even if a puke green.

Lenalee's busying herself into her nightclothes before she hears and answers the knock at her door.

It's Bookman. She's suddenly aware of how low her top is by his uplifting brows, followed pointedly with the immediate redirection of his gaze, placed strategically on the wall beyond her shoulder.

"I was … um … wondering if I could talk to you. Ms. Lee."

She doesn't miss the slight flush on his face.

"S-sure." Lenalee leaves the door open as she hurries inside to pull on a robe.

She ventures to a purple armchair that somehow sinks deeply even under her light weight. The fireplace bathes the room warmly, the darkness wavering and never coming into focus. Bookman comes in after a moment of recollecting himself, finding a seat for himself.

"Should I let my brother know that you're knocking on my door in the middle of the night?" Lenalee digs her toes into the carpet, fingers carelessly twined on her lap. The anger she feels towards him has changed, a quiet contempt instead of a raging hatred.

Bookman makes a face. "I'd like to live a little longer, thanks." A pause. "Actually, I wanted to talk to you about our destination. I'll get out of your hair as soon as I can, so I'm going to get to the point. I want you tell me about where Kanda is. Should we get separated I want to be able to "

"To what? To be able to what? Go there on your own?" Lenalee stands, suddenly furious at his request. "Don't think you have me fooled Bookman. I know that the moment I tell you where he is you'll take off on your own. No? Tell me I'm wrong."

Bookman doesn't give away much, but Lenalee knows that body and she sees through it.

"I don't know why you want me with you. You've shown nothing but dislike towards me. Just tell me and I'll leave." His feet plant firmly into the ground, spine straitening as she walks towards him.

"Do you think I'll let you get to Kanda first? You have no right to come back here just to butt into all our lives. Recordings be damned. You have no right to see him again!"

His face locks down, that infamous Bookman stare piercing right through her. "Shouldn't you be saying that to yourself? At that time you were the only one still there, and you left him anyways. Oh sure, there was still Marie, but it was different and you know it. After the incident with Alma Karma it was Allen that Kanda was reluctantly closest to. We were both second, because of all the crazy shit that was happening near the end, but when Allen died Kanda ignored anything he felt. You didn't teach him how to grieve, you left yourself. I had my duty, what did you have?"

Guilt strikes her, cold and electric, but her anger burns even hotter. "What did I have?" She fixes her hand to the back of his chair, leaning in in hopes of smothering him. "I actually had grief. You left like it was nothing. Like we were nothing! I lost myself in my own stupid misery because not only did Allen die, but because you left of your own free will. You " Her emotions collapse on the exhale of breath, chin dripping tears. She stands at her full height. "It was always said that Bookmen weren't supposed to have a heart. I thought that you had become Lavi enough. I was wrong. Congratulations, you're the perfect Bookman. And an asshole too."

It's quiet, the silence between them no longer empty but overwhelming with emotions, history, and everything else.

The fire cracks like a gunshot, and Lavi moves.

His lips are a mess on hers, unsure but moving desperately. Calloused hands run down her back to nest in the small dip of it.

It's over in a short moment, leaving Lenalee deathly still with shock.

Lavi's breaths resonate too loud. He removes his hands with trembling fingers. "You're wrong," he says looking desperately unhappy, voice devoid of any strength. "You weren't nothing. I always cared. About all of you. But it's not allowed. You don't understand the importance of Bookman. Of who I am."

There's no pity in her, only what she believes. "I've learned that caring for the greater good doesn't always lead to true justice. The winners are considered justice, but both sides always do dark deeds along the way. You should know this better than anyone else." She never wavers in her stare. "But despite all that, you have to know what's important to you, and follow that. I didn't care about the importance of Bookman. I only cared about Lavi. You killed him. No. You let yourself be killed by him, Lavi."

Lavi says nothing.

She slides the back of her hand down his face, smooth and marred with a frown, before letting her slap ring harsh against his flesh. "You should've stayed dead. I don't want to see this!"

Lavi rubs his smarting cheek, smile rueful and sad. "You're right, I should've remained dead, but Lenalee's become a necromancer," he teases like it's the old days before sobering immediately. "But you know, in the end, Lavi ... I have to go. I'll be Lavi for now. I think it's necessary. But I'll have to bury him for good after we part ways."

"I don't want that. Lavi should stay dead," she repeats. Everything about him is Lavi now. His every gesture twists a knife into her chest.

"No, I don't suppose you do." He runs a hand through his trademark hair. "But I think it's needed. For both of us. It's the only way for this alias to disappear for good. We, me, at any rate, need the closure."

The handprint on his cheek is red, a purple bruise already starting to form where her palm struck especially hard.

"Fine," Lenalee snaps. "But I still hate him, you, Bookman, whoever you are. I can't forgive you. After this I never want to see you again."

Lavi heads towards the door. His feet drag but his shoulders are a little straighter and appear more upright. The knob is cold in his grasp as he slows and faces her.

"Bookman … you're wrong about me being the perfect Bookman. I shouldn't be doing this … You know that right?"

"I do," she sighs, knowing they're both going to regret this later. "But you're still an asshole."

Lavi's grin is too familiar. "That part may be true."

.

* * *

.

"Come on. You are so slow Kanda."

The child, Grace White, pulls at his hand with hers. It's been a couple weeks since he's arrived at this village, situated in the pit of a valley where the wind blows consistently with no end to it. He has no idea why he's still here.

She grins at him, the wooden beads of the bracelet he's given her sliding up her thin arm. "We have to get to the next town by nightfall or we're going to miss the show!"

"There's time," he replies, increasing his pace for her anyways.

Grace is the polar opposite of Kanda. Her love of the world is true, real, and completely untainted. Her mother is Mai, a woman that volunteered her DNA to the Order. Mai's father was an exorcist, and even though she wasn't, they were hoping that the potential lay in her DNA.

Kanda never had a mother, born from a pool of water in the lab, but he can't help but wonder sometimes. He never cared at first, but the doctors often told him stories about her. Mai used to be a laundry lady for the Order before she left, popping into the science department frequently to check on Kanda's process.

The science team gave him the name Kanda, God's field, but it was Mai that gave him the name Yuu. The name didn't suit him, too soft for a killer. He wonders what she saw looking down on him, weightless and made for killing, that made her give him that name.

"I wish Dad could come too, but he's always so busy working." Grace pouts, before her spirits rise again like the snap of a rubber band. "But at least he let you take me."

Mr. White had recognized Kanda the moment he stepped foot in their house. Kanda appeared too much like her, same sapphire eyes, slight curve of the nose and elegant symmetrical beauty. Mr. White had genuinely been happy to see he was alive, even though all he knew of Kanda was only through stories that were too warped and deranged to be real. It unnerved Kanda to the point that if Grace hadn't been clutching his hand at the time he would've bolted.

"Your dad's insane," Kanda tells Grace, meaning it with every fibre of his being.

She giggles, and Kanda thinks it's been a long time since he's felt this type of annoyance. His irritation at finders and the general populace don't push these kinds of buttons. It's the annoyance that comes with familiarity of people that know they can get away with shit that no one else can. Or in some cases, like the stupid rabbit; doing it anyways because they won't die even if you kill them.

"Daddy was just happy to see you." She swings their joined hands on level with her head back and forth, her grin so wide Kanda feels like he's being mocked.

Kanda's eye twitches. "He burst out into tears."

"Really, really happy."

"He's an idiot."

"That's why I love Daddy."

Kanda stops and _stares _at her.

Grace stares back with wide innocent eyes. "He's so nice. He loves everyone and everyone loves him. So when he was that happy to see you, I thought about how much I love him."

Mr. White is going to have headaches over this child, Kanda can feel it now. Though maybe not, considering how much of a happy fool he is and how much of a manipulative schemer his daughter is. Scrutinizing that innocent smile on her face makes Kanda remember someone else. It's the same one the Beansprout wore, only not as smoothed over and without the ripples of darkness only tragedy can bring.

"Dear God, the Beansprout is sending in reinforcements from his grave to haunt me." And he can't even insult and injure the replacement. Grace is pretty much his sister in some weird fucked up way. Oh hell.

"Who's the Beansprout?"

"An annoying, lying, idiot, that smiles too much for only screwed up reasons."

Grace's face brightens. "Oh, a friend?"

"He's dead."

Grace's face deflates. "A dead friend." She fidgets, eyes filled with so much pity Kanda finds it demeaning. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry. He's dead because he's an idiot that doesn't know when to give up and has no sense of self preservation." He's dead, and Kanda doesn't know why the fact still pisses him off. Walker is supposed to be like a cockroach and survive the end of the world.

The world didn't end though, and maybe that's the problem. He didn't want to come back to this shitty place that they fought so hard to save.

"You must miss him lots." Grace's pity gaze increases in its intensity making what's left of Kanda's pride bristle.

What's worse is that she's right. "He was an imbecile," he supplies instead.

"A lot, lot. He must have been kind."

"It was fake, like everything else about him."

"I'm sure wherever he is he must miss you too."

"Che. Whatever."

Kanda's sure that wherever Walker is he's laughing at him, making faces and calling him that stupid nickname 'Bakanda'. He's probably still a fool trying to watch over everyone he cares about, that is, unless he's managed to piss God off. Walker was a finicky bastard. He'd get the love and adoration from his peers and those he wants things from. Thing is, he must have some street kid still in him what with his misplaced love for authority as he always seemed to incur the wrath of the higher ups.

Kanda tugs her hand while she smiles, and then they're off again.

"I can't wait until we get to the circus. I've never been to one before!"

.

* * *

.

"Jane, I don't look much like a clown."

Allen should really stop letting Jane do his makeup. She seems to be putting less and less on him as time goes by.

"And I keep telling you that you were born to be a clown. The makeup takes away from your image, trust me. Just a touch to blend and make your skin paler, some colour to your lips and cheeks, and the striking part is your scar. It suits you, somehow." The Princess shrugs, fixing the straps on a leather top that showed enough cleavage to get an entourage of men. Which it has.

Allen ties his boots, a bright blue that goes up to his knees. "I hear you've been making up some fancy tales about my scar."

"And I see that you've worked your magic on Sam. The troop won't _breathe _a word of speculation on your past now." Her ruby red lips are smug and amused. "What card did you pull?"

"But you don't understand," Allen says, expression pitiful with downcast eyes. "I don't like remembering my past … it's something I'd really rather forget." Allen's voice hiccups at the end, his clenched jaw visibly trying to hold back the grief.

"Ah," Jane sounds. "Waterworks. The crocodile tears work every time on kind hearted Sam. Shame on you for exploiting it."

"Well," Allen's transformation from pathetic to cheerful is instantaneous. "I'd rather be shrouded in mystery. More fun that way."

"I'm sure," she grins, coiling her whip. "Need to work on the act a bit though, Hun. Your face is a little dry for that amount of misery."

Allen huffs, visibly insulted. "I've been able to produce real tears since I was five. I, being a considerate gentlemen, wouldn't dare mess up the makeup you kindly applied. I am no amateur."

Jane raises an eyebrow. "So I should go to you for tips?"

"You should come to me for the entire book." Allen fixes his collar, ready for the show. "It'll cost you though."

.

* * *

Feel free to leave any thoughts, concerns, porn, marshmallow worthy flames, or whatever occurs to you.


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